By the Way

Evening Star, Issue 23864, 19 April 1941, Page 3

By the Way

(By X.Y.)

Flit and flutter, little Jap, Righting here and there, On the earth’s unquiet map, What are you ■ Out to do ? What is in the air? Much to hear and much to sec, Nothing much to say— So the little busy bco Makes his call, feathers all, Sips, and flies away. Berlin’s streets resound with “ Heil,” “Viva” answers .Koine; Matsuoka gives a smile, Bows, presents Compliments, Then departs for home. Honourable Fuhrer’s screech Buzzes in his brain. Much respected Diicc’s speech Has n touch He would much Take to feel again. So he smiles at each, and bows. Being full of tact, Holding hand on heart, he vows Solemn troth With them both To the Axis Pact. Adolf thinks him most • polite ; M usso thinks likewise. Docs there lurk an impish light, Just the hint Of a glint In those almond eyes? So the flitting Jap has been Circulating round, Seeing what its to be seen, Finding out (Not a doubt) What is to be found. What will his reactions be, Avtfullest of Japs? Mussolini says, “ Maybe ” ; Adolf’s thin Dubious grin Registers “ Perhaps.” After spending many yen, See the schemer go, Leaving two uncertain men Waiting for .Something more—■ News from Tokio! * * * *

It is fair play for journalists that they should not criticise Civil servants if it can possibly be avoided, for, as a rule, those earnest servants of the Government are precluded by the terms and nature of their employment from taking their own part in public controversy. They may defend their department, but not themselves personally. It is with some misgivings, therefore, that “ X.Y.” picks a bone with those scientific gentlemen, the meteorologists. They sedulously refrain from going to the same extremes in their forecasts as does their own particular subject for study and analysis, the Weather itself. When we were in the grip of the drought; and an occasional “ skiff ” came along—which was only a mockery because, within 10 minutes, any moisture which fell was reabsorbed by an accompanying westerly wind—the weather prophet would take it seriously and reassure us in terms of “ weather improving ” within so many hours, with a prospect of further settled weather thereafter. “ Weather Improving!”, when the only improvement that counted as such with us of the low tank-level brigade would he a night's copious downpour. The precise man of science seemed to forget that circumstances alter cases.

Again, when the skies did relent and acted as if in duty bound to make double and treble atonement for chronic niggardliness, were we warned to prepare for floods?' No. Warning of a possible impending change was given in very restrained _ language. Then came Easter, and quite a number of migrating people construed the official forecast as almost (but not quite) warranting leaving one’s overcoat at home if pressure on car space became at all severe. In our own favourite handy-to-town holiday resort it was a depressing sight on Easter Day (Sunday) to see so many cal’s homeward bound in disgust and disappointment. To be weather-hound in a week-end crib is one thing for a small and select bachelor party, equipped with a keg and a pack of cards; but it is quite another thing for a family. Each of the children usually likes to invite his or her school crony, with the result that the crib is as overloaded as a rushtime Roslyn cable car used to be. and poor materfamilias, working with a quarter of the ordinary conveniences of her own home, experiences a truly appalling time, compared with which-a galley slave’s existence is a bed of roses. To put the coping-stone on her felicity, friends from town have a thoughtful habit of paying a seaside call and partaking of afternoon tea and perhaps a “ set ” meal or so, with the air of conferring a favour, as when Royalty visits a depressed area. However, these mostly stayed home last Sunday.

To do tho meteorologist justice, he would court great unpopularity, not to say open, hostility, in a number of quarters were he to issue pessimistic warnings on the eve of festivals such as Easter, a test football match, or tho waterside workers’ annual picnic. By virtue of his office ho must consider the Railways General Manager, the ice cream vendors, the hotel and hoarding house proprietors, the racing clubs, and the Bottle-gatherers’ Industrial Union—if they have one. Therefore, one presumes, the weather man has recourse t’o the language of diplomacy. Before the days of State control of the weather—that is to say, before the Meteorological Department was organised on permanent and highly scientific lines—there were a few weather prophets in private practice. Some of them were anything but mealymouthed. Dunedin had its Mr Paulin, who on occasion could be as definite and emphatic as the late Mr Clement Wragge himself, who earned for himself the nick-name of “ Inclement .Wragge.” Many a high country sheep farmer became ashen-faced when, in the middle of a spell of halcyon weather, ho read on the notice board of his post office a telegram conveying Mr Paulin’s announcement of the approach of devastating snowstorms and a warning to get his sheep clown to safety without delay. Arrangements would be made for snow raking; but fortunately the Snow King quite often failed to keep the appointment, and the high country wethers journeyed to uo purpose. Still, there was no mistaking the purport of any of Mr Paulin's prophecies, whether accurate or the reverse in the fulfilment.

“The time has come” the Walrus said, "To talk of many things.”

Somehow all this reminds “ X.Y.” of a well-known Dunedin citizen whose daily round with cart and basket was a pure joy to many a housewife. He was a self-educated and self-made man, and very successful in his most indispensable calling. Though ho was the employer of quite a few hands, he preferred to make his deliveries in person, as far as humanly possible, for one man cannot drive several baker’s carts and servo several suburbs at once. As is often the case with men whose schooldays have been greatly curtailed by the necessity to become a wage earner early, ho bad (at first) a profound respect for Education, the more expensive the better. So, being well able to afford it, he sent his daughter to ono of Dunedin’s most exclusive schools for young ladies. In his more confidential moments at the back door he expressed bis private opinion of the results of this capital outlay: “ She speaks nice and she eats nice; but, Lord, she don’t know nothing.” • * • * A ditch surrounds the sodden green Which once was in the pink; Numbers and pegs adorn the scene, Div iding rink from rink; And in the damp Pavilion, camp Forlorn, dejected souls. A sorry sight— For miseries blight The Brotherhood of Bowls. Ah, what avails the rubber mat, The kitty round and white, The snowy slacks, the shady hat, The blazer barred and bright? With sullen air The bowlers stare And stare, hut all in vain; The turf is dead, And overhead The heavens'squirt with rain. Unused are all the ponderous bags; Unwanted is the chalk ; No use for measures or for rags, Or anything but talk. A murmur loud Comes from the crowd, “ Alas, and weel-a-way, The green’s too wet, We shall not got Our game of bowls to-day! For things are in a pretty pass, A lamentable state, When weeping clouds and soaking grass Confoundedly frustrate The blameless sports Of decent sorts, Young, middle-aged, and old— And quench their dreams With watery streams And messy, muddy mould. It’s merry in the gay sunlight To hear the genial clack Of shrewdly-driven howls that smite Opponents from the jack; Or featly drawn Along the lawn Attain the very spot— And earn thereby The joyful cry Which hails the perfect shot. Alaok-a-day, the bootless dream! For here’s a holiday Which sent each bowler’s well-laid scheme Disastrously agley. Of play bereft, There’s nothing left Except the dubious fun Of knowing this Disaster is The same for everyone.

To add to the difficulties of the Government, the freezing companies, tho price controllers, and the harassed shopkeepers (also the poor consumer), the hens have gone on strike. There were no Easter eggs; or, to be more precise, there were no eggs at Easter time. And, quite as much as the contents of the container which are made accessible per medium of the tinopener, the more or less new-laid egg is as indispensable to father left at home while the family disperses for a few days, as it is to the family abroad contriving menus when the butcher has closed his shop to inspect (thoroughbred) stock at Addington or Riverton, and the_ bread is three days old. At the seaside, of course, there will be fish.There was not. Fish are in the enviable position of being able to go for a sea voyage whenever they fee! in need of a change. If the weather round the coast is debilitating, and plasmon, whrtle-feed, or smaller fish are becoming scarce, the fish of commercial value simply takes his hook, and is not present to take the fisherman’s hook, if proffered. Who would be a housewife these days? She reads of surpluses in the food line and is implored by an all'wise and all-pervading Government to stuff her faddy family with pork and apple sauce, when possibly they fancy fried oysters and mushrooms, or a bit of the tail-end of groper.

However, with the improved weather on the departure of Easter, the fish have returned to within reasonable distance of our coasts, and fishermen feel justified, in risking the roll iu their relatively small craft, also tho outlay on petrol. It is a real pleasure to see the launches pick up their moorings and discharge big blue cod and a few groper into their respective dinghies until, with the added weight, of the fisherman himself, tho amount of freeboard is negligible. For it has been a thin time for months for the fisherman. (Of the trawlers “ X.Y.” cannot speak, as none operate from the particular estuary of which he can speak first hand.) Now' tho future hinges on two things: Will the return of the fish be merely transient? Will Government control put the fishing industry down and out for good and all ? Thus far Government control is advancing crabwise towards its end—State Socialism, presumably. That is to say it selects from private enterprise a seat-warmer and bestows meantime a monopoly, the Government, like Martha, being occupied about many things besides groper and ling. The monopoly is not yet quite absolute, but the horizon looks dark for fisherman and consumer alike. The seat of tho monopoly is in the middleman section, as usual, * • * * Without going into details, there is a rumour going round that the Government’s latest price-fixing venture is to fix the price of crayfish for the 19-11 season at 11s 6d per bag. Rumour may be a fickle jade, hut should not always be discounted too heavily, A few years ago there were rumours that Germany was rearming. Anyway, this putative 11s fid compares with 22s fid per bag “ on the beach ” during 1940, which, considering the risks of total loss of gear through bad weather, is not excessive. No sane fisherman will make

pots and paint his boat and overhaul his engine to catch “ crabs ” at 11s fid per bag.

The Dunedin City Council could extend a helping hand here. Years ago, after long agitation, it built a fish market. It was to be open to the public as well as to fishmongers. For the information of the public, # but few of whom probably knew of its existence, though its rates met the cost, the market is situated by the ramp over the railway near Frederick street. It has good road access for the delivery side and a railway siding for the receiving side. It was never used for its avowedly designed purpose. As soon as completed it was leased to two middlemen at 15s per week each. The ratepayers’ money was misapplied by their trustee. Is it too late for the City Council to rectify this? It would involve the Corporation in a challenge to the Government and its irresponsible policy of strangulation by Order in Council. Once Dunedin had a mayor who crossed* swords with Richard Secldon at his zenith, and did not come off second best. Appropriately his name was Fish—Henry S. Fish.